on
the eve of the most important fight in his life, before an audience of
newspaper men, he had thrown them all aside and was making an exhibition
of himself with a common sparring-partner.

That was the bitter blow to Mr. Burrowes. Had this lapse into the
unscientific primitive happened in a regular fight, he might have
mourned and poured reproof into Bug's ear when he got him back in his
corner at the end of the round; but he would not have experienced this
feeling of helpless horror--the sort of horror an elder of the church
might feel if he saw his favourite bishop yielding in public to the
fascination of jazz. It was the fact that Bugs Butler was lowering
himself to extend his powers against a sparring-partner that shocked Mr.
Burrowes. There is an etiquette in these things. A champion may batter
his sparring-partners into insensibility if he pleases, but he must do
it with nonchalance. He must not appear to be really trying.

And nothing could be more manifest than that Bugs Butler was trying. His
whole fighting soul was in his efforts to corner Ginger and destroy him.
The battle was raging across the ring and down the ring, and up the ring
and back again; yet always Ginger, like a storm-driven ship, contrived
somehow to weather the tempest. Out of the flurry of swinging arms he
emerged time after time bruised, bleeding, but fighting hard.

For Bugs Butler's fury was defeating its object. Had he remained his
cool and scientific self, he could have demolished Ginger and cut
through his defence in a matter of seconds. But he had lapsed back into
the methods of his unskilled novitiate. He swung and missed, swung and
missed again, struck but found no vital spot. And now there was blood on
his face, too. In some wild melee the sacred fount had been tapped, and
his teeth gleamed through a crimson mist.

The Wise Guys were beyond speech. They were leaning against one another,
punching each other feebly in the back. One was crying.

And then suddenly the end came, as swiftly and unexpectedly as the
thing had begun. His wild swings had tired Bugs Butler, and with fatigue
prudence returned to him. His feet began once more their subtle weaving
in and out. Twice his left hand flickered home. A quick feint, a short,
jolting stab, and Ginger's guard was down and he was swaying in the
middle of the ring, his hands hanging and his knees a-quiver.

Bugs Butler measured his distance, and Sally shut her eyes.

CHAPTER X